


Laycil

by demoncat22



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Dark John, Harriet's the Queen, How life is created and the world and stuff, John is a star, John is also a prince, John-centric, M/M, Magical Realism, Misunderstandings, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Original Character(s), Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Season/Series 03, Prince John - Freeform, but it's not his fault, he's been hurt a lot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-03-22 05:38:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3717145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demoncat22/pseuds/demoncat22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had been different, and then Sherlock had jumped off the roof of a hospital. What else had he been supposed to think?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John had never been human.

Bullets could never hurt him, his lungs _(he checked, he did have them)_ adapted to water and fire the way it did to air, and he was pretty sure he could sit in a bucket of ice for millenias before he froze to death ( _it was why he did the Ice Bucket Challenge as many times as Sherlock demanded, grinning when Sherlock grew ever more frustrated when he showed no sign of backing down- no- no- timelines_ ), and although he bled, he would never suffer from blood loss.

But emotions, human emotions, he had them just the same.

A _flaw_ , clearly.

He’d never been born, not from a womb- he’d been made.

It wasn’t very often he wondered why the next generation _(he, his sister, his cousins)_ had been made with all these messy thoughts and feelings. It wasn't often but when he hit a boulder, when he stumbled, it'd be all he could think on.

Their kind _(his mother, relatives he visited over centuries on the other side of the planet)_ came from the abyss of space, from distant galaxies with raucious planets. They were dead stars who'd refused to go out, who had clawed and struggled to find somewhere they could live; emotions were all they knew, desperation and anger.

His mother, Ihyna, found her place in the molten core of _Earth_ , when humans hadn’t yet learned to tear into each other for fleeting power, when bugs then were larger than buses now. She’d watched over life, took them into her arms when their bones grew brittle and weak and they took their last breath. Alone in her molten home, she’d watched life be born anew after bodies ceased to work, watched souls wander around her little kingdom before being sent off into a new life, sent to Gion and Fyen, who made tweaks and changes to personality and mind, shoved souls into new bodies waiting on earth.

Then - _(and he'd heard this story far too often as a child) -_  she had wanted something new.

She had Gion and Fyen make two souls for her (they did after much cajoling). She had them make young stars from the sky and the fire of her home.

Two children.

Laycil, Saryph.

She had told him, before she'd handed the throne to his sister, that he’d find it easier to _understand_ , to empathize, to love the ones who’d come and go; in different forms but always the same soul.

She jad never told him it could hurt quite so bad, and in the end, he had to find that out himself.

Or that he’d come to love _feeling_ so much that he’d do it again.

 

* * *

 

"Humans are stupid."

Xin - quiet and small, ever flunctuating in height - watched quietly as the master rubbed a hand over the painting on his shoulder, thumb kneading into the ink, as if trying to smear it. The line of his back was tense with anger, his other hand clenching the edge of the bed, sheets bunching in his fist. They said nothing because they had nothing to say.

They were only to do three things: _Listen, Obey, Protect._

There were only ever these three things.

That was why the master and the mistress were special - they got feelings, they got a body; they weren't just shadows moving in the dark. They were one of the Mighty, even if they had less power.

The Mighty made them for the master, just as they made 3 others for the mistress.

"Why did I-" the master swiped a hand over the picture, twisting around, his expression tight and seething, even when the ink disappeared without a trace, even when the skin smoothed over good as new, fingers dug into skin, dragging pale lines over the black and white picture, blooming into red. "Why did i believe him?"

It had been a decade before, they knew, when the master came to the mistress with a foreign light in his eyes, wide and young. They had spoken of an animal, a human, whom the master had adored so very dearly.

"Because he said he loved you." they answered without thought, and a pair of shining bottomless eyes pinned them where they stood, in them the fires of the Mighty burned.

"That's a good answer." the Master spat, furiously rubbing his hand over his face, almost bruisingly hard, pressing the heel of his palm into his eyes. "Good answer, Xin." the Master looked down at his hands, clenching into a fist, before burying his face into his arms, head shaking. "It's not enough!" he muttered, then repeated-  _"_ _It's not enough!"_  voice exploding in the small chamber, pulling himself to his feet with whiplash speed. "I can't- It's not enough. Just- just making it disappear isn't enough- he did this to me- he _made_ me like this-"

Fire sparked against the master's skin, the air crackling with the Mighty's fury. " ** _T h e s e    f e e l i n g s ._** _"_

Although not having any feelings might be for the best, for seeing the way the master seemed to hurt, as if his skin were peeling away, as if there was a boulder in his mortal shell that threatened to split him inside out; so lost and angry and younger than he should be.

"I'll never forget this. _Never-"_ the master looked them in the eye, and all anger fled, softening his features as he all but pleaded.  _"Don't let me forget."_

Even before they agreed - and they would, _they_ _would,_ it was what they were made for - the master reached back to press against where the picture used to be, burning a crawling scar into his shoulder with the force of his rage, causing raised welts that simmered with power, causing mauled skin to shrivel into the star burst pattern of an exploding star.

They hesitated to step forward, to tell him to stop - _this was all wrong, the master was being **wrong** -_  watching quietly once again.

They did nothing.

"Yes, Master."

 

* * *

 

He didn't realize he'd been starting to fall for Sherlock.

He should have known, one way or another, he'd always come back to the human world. He thought he'd been safe, this time. He knew what to avoid, knew never to let them get to him, never let them too close. He had all the rules, all these thoughts in his head, and then all of a sudden, Sherlock had come into his life- more than that, Sherlock been his friend. _Just_ a _friend-_ no matter what the others might think.

They weren't a couple, they would never  _be_ a couple, and that was that. He wasn't interested, and Sherlock definitely wasn't interested.

One thing he knew, one thing he counted on _always_ , was that Sherlock would never hurt him. Yes, the accursed human might drug him, poison him, drive him half-mad with the way he cluttered the entire flat as if it were all his, as if he were simply an extension of the flat to be owned and to be used- but when it came down to it, when they were in a dark warehouse with a gun in his hand and Sherlock behind him, he knew the man wouldn't let him down. _  
_

"Master," it was always so easy to differentiate between Xin and Saryph's shadows; Xin had voice of running water, where Saryph had always prefered the crackling of wooden logs hosting flames. The shadow was just there at the corner of his sparse room, eyes glimmering white and unblinking against the dark. "Mistress told me to remind you."

"I'm not going to make the same mistake twice." he said stiffly, turning away to rummage through his clothes, angry at the very implication, the scar on his shoulder stinging. "We're not a couple." Why did no one ever listen to him?

"You told me not to let you forget."

He closed the cupboard door a little louder than necessary, shrugging a random jumper on as he heard the sudden sound of a fire extinguisher going off, certain he'd find half the kitchen in flames when he went down there. "I'm not an idiot." he said quickly, opening the door of his room.

_Wrong._

 

* * *

 

He didn’t plan on waiting around for the autopsy to come through, when he pulled away from the ambulance, from the murmuring bystanders, people he couldn't bear touch him. He didn't plan on seeing the body at all, and he ran from Anthea and the incessant black car feeling like a child again. They let him leave.

He wondered if the cameras were following him now, or if Mycroft had finally seen what his actions had cost him. He ran for so far and so long, only to end up back at Baker Street. It'd been his home; every single time he thought of going back, he'd think of this place, their kitchen, with stupid chemicals everywhere, he'd thought of the mess their living room would be in and how he'd have to clean it up. 221B had been his home.

No, that was wrong, wasn't it.

Sherlock had been his home.

He should wait- he had to be responsible, but Sherlock had been taken from him too early, unfairly. He’d thought he’d have a few decades more but he didn’t. They'd only known each other for a year and it wasn't enough time, wasn't even close to what he thought they'd have. And there was no one else to take vengeance on _(Moriarty was dead, which was good because if he was still alive he'd set him on fire and watch him burn)_ , no one to turn to _(who'd he been kidding? He'd never had friends, no one like Sherlock, no matter what he liked to pretend, so little people got past his walls like Sherlock)_ , no one to talk it out with and he’d always been so bad with decisions-

He called Saryph.

In the back way alley, just by their _(his, his, not theirs anymore, just his)_ flat, he gripped the necklace he had around his neck, and he _called_ her. She'd never come see him herself, he knew that, but even a portal was enough for him to beg her to let him see Sherlock.

_If she would just let him see Sherlock-_

Sherlock wasn’t with her.

And she knew every soul, every life that had ever passed through when she reigned. She knew the colours of their bodies when they grew into dust and she would have known Sherlock before, from another time, from another life- and she hadn't seen him. _Why would she lie like that, why would she-_

There and then, there were worlds in her eyes, her words so _delicate_ as if he would come apart at the seams if she were too harsh with him; solemn, regretful.

She knew, they both knew.

 _That_ was when it started hurting again.

 _Oh,_ but h _e_  knew _this_ routine, when someone found out (de _mon_ ), when they ran _(like the devil were at their heels)_. He knew this routine _(Well, no exorcists this time, no knives or guns)_. _How had Sherlock known?_ Why didn’t he say anything? Why did he have to pretend to _die_ just to leave him?Why couldn’t a simple ‘I don’t want you anymore’ work?

Because it was _Sherlock_  bloody _Holmes._

John Watson disappeared that night.

No one noticed until the next day.

 

* * *

 

“Xin was right.” He said, the doors closing behind him, a thousand reflections making their way towards the throne, kneeling in one swift move before pulling himself to his feet with barely a pause _(the bow was formality anyway)_ , stepping back to meet her gaze, _“You,”_ he said heavily, a weighty pause between each word, “Were _right_.”

She watched him for a while, quiet; tapping gently against her thigh. “Humans don’t often deserve our love,” Saryph said at last, voice bouncing off the mirrors she’d decorated the chamber with, soft the way it would be when someone met her at the feet of her throne, when she felt she could be no one else but the authority, the very picture of royalty, a crown on her head, drawing circles into the arm of her seat with a finger absently. “John.”

He shook his head almost immediately, hearing that name from her lips, eyes closing briefly as his forehead furrowed.

“No.” he said firmly, the word catching in his throat, inhaling sharply, _“No.”_

“Sorry.” she said, following his jerky movements with her eyes, watching when he finally wandered to one of the mirrors lining her throne room, and he’d hated it then, when she had them put in, and he hated it now.

“Laycil, then.”

His lips curled when John Watson looked back at him. The soldier in the way he stood, the doctor in the callouses of his hands, the friend in the sadness of his eyes. He couldn't bear to look at this face any longer, to look at the memories he'd surely be reminded with, the lines he'd gotten running after the only man he'd considered staying for. It'd been fun while it lasted, and he had known it wouldn't last.

Rolling his shoulders, like shrugging on a new coat, he ran a hand through his hair, short fingers shifting through golden strands.

“I’m back.” and when he sighed, his voice was a little higher, a little less tired, like a cloak over his head. His eyes gleamed black when he opened them, seeing a younger man in the mirror, almost a teenager in an old jacket that’d melted into a new suit, a teenager who’d never met a human in centuries, a teenager who’d dutifully stayed by his sister’s side, the way their mother had always wanted.

A teenager who wouldn’t remind him of, of-

Saryph met his eyes from where she sat, smiled at him with as much sympathy as she cared to muster.

“You’re back.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John speaking French...
> 
> Correct me if i'm wrong; I used google translate.

Mycroft stared at the small printed words across the newspaper, eyes glazed, as he absently twirled his mobile in his left hand. The press hadn’t yet stopped clambering over the chance to rip into his little brother _(there could never be any doubt now whether Sherlock really had been Moriarty)_ – they’d gotten to his drug history now, and he had been hoping John hadn’t seen it. Wherever the man may be.

There was no need to panic just yet _(or ever, if he was lucky)_. John couldn’t have gone far; he would know, there would be a plane ticket, or a train ticket, a paper trail of some kind. He’d find him sooner or later, and then he'd sit the doctor down for a good talk. John Watson was supposed to be the one to sell the entire farce - if John Watson believed, then everyone else would. He trusted the doctor not to do anything stupid – that would completely ruin the point of Sherlock’s little crusade.

As for Sherlock…

It was probably for the best he didn’t tell Sherlock his flatmate was gone – after all, John would be back under his surveillance in no time at all. There was no need to inform anyone of _anything_.

 

* * *

 

Saryph liked to be very lax with the Shadows, with her instructions.

The souls, they just came and went, wandered around the courtyard and sometimes found themselves in one of the rooms the Shadows used, when it wasn’t their turn, and then someone had to escort them out. There were schedules and the shadows couldn’t be everywhere at once, so everyone got their turn, and when they didn’t, they got to roam. Where would they go? It was all fire and magma everywhere. Not that they’d feel anything – they didn’t have a body. Pain was only for sessions; no sessions, no pain.

The period of time souls would stay depended on the things they’d done; a few days – those were usually the animals – and sometimes a few weeks – humans, geese – and sometimes as long as a decade – assholes, geese. And then they’d be sent to Fyen and Gion and into the womb of a mother.

Saryph doted on the animals that passed through. She had a couple of lambs rest at the feet of her throne. He'd caught her once, her head lying on the wool of a sheep, slumped over her throne. She'd been screaming her frustrations into it, and then he'd offer to take over for her. She had agreed.

Humans, according to Saryph, were too loud.

They so rarely spoke here, so rarely struggled, especially when they knew they had died. He found the loud ones reassuring, always - that they had not been transformed into puppets on a string, that they had kept their own personality with them even until it was time for them to meet Gion and Fyen. They would ask so many questions, would quake when it became their time to _truly_ leave. They would sit upon the crusts, conversing.

As Laycil, as Saryph's second in command, he had to deal with what she didn’t want to.

He had to deal with the humans.

And it was only a few days in that he found a particular man being guided away from annoying a group of cows _(the animals liked to stay together, no matter if they died at different times, somehow, they’d find each other and stayed like that until it was time for them to go)_ , and evidently, he’d been doing that for some time.

 

* * *

 

Jim was trying to wrestle smoke reaching an overly aggressive cow. Apparently, he had been disturbing it. They were _cows._ They did not have anything to do here- just before _here,_ he hadn't even known they had the cognitive function to  _think, let alone complain about him_. Him disturbing them was probably the only interesting thing that had happened to them for however long they had been here. _This_ was just like 7th grade.

“Let me go.” he said experimentally, looking up at solid smoke, his arms limp and unstruggling in their iron hold.

The shadows said nothing, and _(ignoring how he couldn’t touch them but they could touch him, because he was dead, so who cared)_ so he tried again, this time with a question they could definitely answer. Like robots, they were - no personality at all, and what was the point of teasing something with no soul? “Where am I going?”

“Away.” came the clipped reply, a thousand voices all at once, like a broken radio syncing channels.

“So what am I supposed to do here??" he exploded, the cuff of his button up snagging on something he couldn't see. "This is worse than when I was alive.”

There was a flash of blond out of the corner of his eye, a small figure, and his first thought had been of that doctor Sherlock liked to have follow him around. His eyebrows shot up, but when he twisted around, it was only a boy by the front gates. The front gates were so often open, and with so many _others_  around, he had loathed to go near it.

It was a teenager, watching him with eerie eyes blown coal black, soft features void of expression. It looked nearly carved from stone with the way the _thing_ was staring at him; certainly he had seen no other human so neatly dressed. There was something so _very familiar_ about him, ignoring the eyes. Maybe it was the round cheeks, the button nose. He couldn’t help shake off the feeling that he’d met him before.

Their eyes met, and he raised his eyebrows in challenge, fascinated with the way the boy’s lips twisted in disgust. Oh yes, they knew each other.

Although the clothes.

The expensive suit, the gloves, the crystal around his neck…

The teenager turned on his heels and disappeared into the glass castle. It had intrigued him before sure, but logic of the dead, really. He had had no reason to enter- not until now.

“Who was that?” he asked, not bothering to hide the interest in his voice, looking at the darkness surrounding his wrist, wisps of smoke that he could never touch. He may have found the one thing here that wasn't completely boring.

Same as they always did, the shadows replied; _“The master.”_

 

* * *

 

“Xin.” the Master said, voice wavering slightly, calling out like he'd been testing the strength of his voice, didn't trust himself not to fail.

“Yes, Master.”

“I’m leaving.” the Master looked at him contemplatively, fingers already around the pendant resting against his neck, a bit absently, as if the encounter with the human had shaken him somewhat. Then turned his gaze back to the ground, where he seemed to vibrate with tension navigating through the halls of the Mistress's castle, “For a while. I’ll be back soon.”

The Mistress would want to know about this; the Mistress demanded to know most everything about the Master, especially when it involved travelling to the mortal world. He knew she would disapprove. “Would you like me to accompany you, Master?”

The Master hesitated, his feet silent against the floor of the corridor, shadows looming over them with the flare of fire lining the walls.

When the Master spoke again, his voice was almost inaudible. “Yes.”

 

* * *

  

It was just a kid in Paris. Wearing fingerless autumn gloves and tapping a rhythm against his jean-clad thigh, he looked about 17, maybe younger, lost in the bustling of the small square.

 _“Vous ne parlez pas du tout, Xin.”_ The boy had been saying with a voice dripping with dismissal, eyes on the various trinkets decorating the windows of shops and cafes as he spoke to the older man – clearly a help of some kind – trailing behind him. If he’d been looking at all, he’d have known to step aside.

 _“Regardez où vous allez!”_ he snarled when they bumped into each other roughly, and at once, burning sapphire irises snapped to his face.

The sound of his voice made the help, a man in his twenties, standing too stiffly, standing too straight (as if unused to his clothes; the button-up, the trousers; uncomfortable in his skin) take a deliberate step forward, empty hazel eyes tracking the twitch of his fingers, the jerk of his hands, as if he would leap at them at any moment and he would catch him when he did.

But it was the kid who snatched his attention.

He _knew_ those eyes. Those were John’s eyes – he knew because he’d stare at them for days on end, remember every expression that followed, how they’d shift and gleam and glittered, every single shade of blue that made up the sky and ocean. He knew because whenever John smiled, his eyes would smile with him, and they were all he could think of when his thoughts returned to London, to Baker Street, when he’d finally be done chasing.

He couldn’t stop himself from reaching forward, from stumbling over his own feet when the teenager lurched back as if struck, wide eyes staring at him with fathomless betrayal and heartbreak, features slack and arms drawn across his chest. It took him a moment to remember himself, that it wasn’t John he was looking at, that he still had a long way to go before he could go home, that he was in the middle of a busy intersection reaching out for a teenager he’d never met. When he blinked, the older man stood between them, staring at him with icy eyes.

But the shape of that face, the short stature, blond hair-

“ _Xin, allons-y!”_ the boy snapped, already walking the other way, shoulders tensed as if waiting a blow.

_“Oui maître.”_

The man barely gave him a last glance before turning to follow his master, and he shook his head firmly, determinedly look away. John was waiting back in London- he had to focus, there was no time for distractions, he had to get back to John. The sooner he finished this, the sooner he could see John again.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Vous ne parlez pas du tout, Xin_ : You don't talk at all, Xin
> 
>  _Regardez où vous allez_ : Watch where you're going
> 
>  _Xin, allons-y_ : Xin, let's go
> 
>  _Oui maître_ : Yes master


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was supposed to be 3-chaptered but that wasn't happening and i was forced to extend it to 4 chapters. It will be the last chapter, i promise.

Fire sparked and popped against the skin of the Master’s hands, ran up his arms and licked the black fabric of his suit. The flexing of his lithe fingers belayed his agitation, but the Master was not one to give into shouting and throwing fits, not for something as little as an encounter in the streets, and the only other sign of distress was the way the Master stormed towards his room with footsteps coming down too hard and too fast, features dark and shadowed, lips thinned white.

They doubted they would have dared said a word even if they could.

The Master opened the door to his room with a push of his hand, stopped suddenly, back snapping to attention, rigid.

They grew larger when they noticed the error, the mistake - there was an animal in the room. It was a human, they decided, coming up behind the Master, who was standing so straight he looked as if he might snap. It was an error that needed to be erased; they fixed large, unblinking eyes on the mortal lying on the Master’s bed, waiting for any indication or order that the Master would like it thrown out.

“Are you lost?” the Master asked delicately, as if talking to an infant, and he might as well be, for all animals on the surface of the earth were infants in contrast to the Master and the Mistress. He circled around the desk to avoid it, voice even and calm, settling into the role of the Mighty’s son.

“Nope.” The animal said, a broad smile stretching its lips, irises flickering to him, then to the Master.

“I’m afraid this area is out of bounds.” The Master said in a parody of politeness, his eyes, even when bottomless, conveyed exactly how he felt about it, teeth baring in a sharp smile; he didn’t like the animal. His voice was saccharine sweet. “You’ll have to go."

“I don’t want to.” The animal replied in a crooning voice, taking delight in his mocking, even when they were ready to throw it out themselves with the disrespect it was presenting the Master with, daring to circle the Master, a desk between them, pale fingers brushing over parchment and pen.  “This is the most fun i’ve had since I’ve landed in this god-forsaken place.”

“When is your next session?” The Master asked instead, and there was thunder beneath his velvet voice.  _Could the animal not see the force they were presented with? How large the master was compared to it?_

“Not for a while,” the animal scoffed, waving a petite hand. “Enough time for me to guess who you are, my dear.”

“Xin.” The Master said stonily, and they immediately curled around the animal’s wrist, binding it back and halting its steps.

The animal tugged against their hold half-heartedly, a manic smile curling his lips, watching the Master’s smaller form across the desk. “I know you.” It said, delight dripping from its voice, as if something had been confirmed in it's mind. “And you know me.”

“Get him out.”

The Master’s tone was hard and unyielding, and they would cower at the sound. It was a near growl, filled with seething anger wrapped in a facade of control, all locked up in the Master's iron will, and they weren't unfamiliar with it - one did not forget the Master's wrath. The animal looked stunned for a moment, absolute shock freezing its features as it stared at the innocuous form the Master had chosen, so small and young, deadly and deceiving. As they hauled it up, the animal _laughed_. A hysterical bark of laughter.

_“John Watson!”_

The Master almost flinched back at the human name shaped by brittle chuckles, black eyes widening, “Xin, _get_ _him_ _out_!” he shouted, fire burning at his feet, fury in every line of his stance.

They did immediately.

 

* * *

 

“I do not want him anywhere near me. I do not want him anywhere near my room. I do not want to see him, or hear him. I don’t want him to talk to me, to touch me, to find me. I want you, or any other Shadow in the area to keep him away from me, no matter what. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master.”

 

* * *

 

Saryph didn’t say anything when Laycil suddenly started popping up at the cells that held down humans and punished them. She was informed that he’d show up some times, take over, while the Shadows watched and assisted or left to tend to the others. His Shadow would always be beside him, behind him; they’d always relay everything to her. She worried about him sometimes, and his ridiculous habit of mixing with humans, how he always seemed to go back and live out life after life as a boring little animal with too many rules to follow and too restricting a society. Wasn’t it so much better living where you made the rules? Where you were worshipped?

Although recording down on paper after paper, giving orders to Shadows who said not a word otherwise, wasn’t a lot of fun. She really should invent a better system. Sometimes it all became too strenuous for her, and all she wanted to do was take a whip and split skin.

So really, she understood when Laycil picked up the carving knife again.

Relieved in fact – he was going to _break_ with all those _feelings_ bottled up with nowhere to go.

 

* * *

 

“What are you going to do?” Moriarty laughed, somehow having gotten through his Shadows, somehow having found him where he should’ve been safe. Light on his feet, as if stalking a prey, still. They would never leave him, would they? All his other lives, in the 16th century, 19th, they would never want to see him again anyway, even when they died. It’d been such a mistake to become John Watson, meet Sherlock Holmes. It’d been such a mistake. “Burn me?” Moriarty mocked, walking ever closer. He was a snake, and Laycil wasn’t afraid of him.

 _“Yes.”_  he snarled _,_  a quiet hiss dripping with venomous malice, his lips carved into a knife-sharp smile when Jim Moriarty faltered in face of him. He stepped forward and watched the _animal_  fight to stay still. He was no prey. Maybe John Watson had been, but not him.

“And this time,” fire danced at his fingertips, “I **_can._ ”**

 

* * *

 

Sometimes, when it was too quiet and he had too much time to himself, Sherlock’s hands would shake.

Sometimes the fingers curled around his gun – a necessity now, the only thing that reassured him enough to close his eyes – would tremble, sweaty palms pressed against the folds of his trousers, just feeling the ridges of his revolver in his jacket could start the shaking, but then… _“He wasn’t a very good man.”_

Sometimes when he pressed bandages against his skin, watching red bloom and soak into the fabric, antiseptic stinging his wound, John would be there, eyebrows furrowed and lips thin. _“You have to be more careful next time, Sherlock!”_ he’d say, worry beneath the sharp snap of his voice, the gentle touch of his hands countering the anger drawn in his features. _“Never met a bigger idiot than you, what the fuck were you thinking.”_

 _Sentiment_ , Mycroft’s sneer echoed in his ear, and yet he clasped the chain around his neck, the locket beneath his shirt, feeling dreadfully like a love sick teenager. It wasn’t safe, to have a picture with him, on his person. It wasn’t safe, no sane assassin would ever have one, and there were too many possibilities, too many risks. What if he got caught?

 _“Should be simple then, detective.”_ John whispered in his ear, laughter in his voice, amused and affectionate.

_Don’t get caught._

 

* * *

 

He had gotten caught.

He had been careless, and when they stripped him of his belongings, they'd found the chain around his neck. Large hands yanked it away from him, metal slicing into his skin. He'd only hung his head and gritted his teeth, let them laugh when they cracked it open, voice rough and mocking,  _"Your lover?"_ His skin rippled with humiliation, fury, that their unworthy eyes would glance upon John's face. He said nothing, and whatever threats they came up with, directed at his soldier, he ignored, features unshaved and filthy with dirt schooled to impassiveness, as if he weren't seething. At them, at himself.

When Mycroft had stood up, revealed himself in that awful garb and whispered in his ear, he'd seethe even more. Mycroft had seen how weak he'd been, to have kept a souvenier of an old life even when on the run. Mycroft had done nothing. He could've at least intervened faster, rather than just sitting there, watching him get beaten into a pulp.

 _He_ was being ungrateful?

Mycroft droned on about the terrorist cell in London, that it threatened to bomb parliament and some other nonsense, watching him ruffle his hair, gaze unimpressed, but then, Mycroft was seldom impressed with anything, his life as grey as his eyes.

“Yes,” he dismissed impatiently, eyeing himself in the mirror, “What about John Watson?”

Pretending he hadn’t been eager to see John as soon as he had set foot in London, pretending his chest didn’t burn with fondness and want, pretending he didn’t have to fight to keep himself from demanding what had been happening to his doctor while he’d been away. Pretending his heart wasn’t too loud in his chest. His voice was steady, casual. A smile threatened to pull at his lips.

Mycroft turned away, gave the room a cursory scan that felt as if he were stalling for time, turned back to him resolutely.

“John Watson?” his brother asked at last, and he nearly rolled his eyes in exasperation.

“Yes, John Watson. John Hamish Watson, my flat mate?”

Mycroft watched him right his coat collar flippantly, and when he turned towards him, his jaw was unusually tight. Mycroft took a quick breath as if steeling himself, eyes dropped towards the ground in an uncharacteristic show of behavior.

“He’s gone.”

He blinked, and it was as if the words had barely filtered through his head, but Mycroft could see the storm coming even beneath the inscrutable mask he'd had to perfect throughout the years, Mycroft, who had failed. Who had _failed._ Who hadn't kept his greatest treasure safe.

“We’ve searched everywhere,” Mycroft said with infuriating calmness, watching him carefully, “We couldn’t find him.”

And then, and then he started to seethe. At the back of his mind, he noticed how his heart rate seemed to have gone up, pulse thundering under his skin. _How could John be gone?_  It was almost impossible for him to have gone anywhere without being caught- _Mycroft_  was watching him. How could his brother have let John just _disappear like that?_ For 2 _years;_  he was near hysterical thinking of what could’ve happened to John in that span of time. Maybe he’d been dead for a long time already, died wishing someone would save him and nobody did.

His throat clogged at the thought, of John alone, face filthy with dirt, body broken and bloody- _“How could you have let this happen?”_

“I assure you, Sherlock, that if there had been any sign, any clue-"

“You,” he hissed, interrupting, poking a finger into Mycroft’s chest, “ _Your_ men. Useless!” he turned on his heels, fingers curling into fists at his sides, “I _never should’ve trusted you!_ ”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time goes on, as it always does. Four years without a trace of John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the last chapter. We were all lied to - myself included- i'm so sorry, CHAPTER FIVE IS THE LAST. IT IS. CROSS MY HEART.

Time goes on, as it always does, but Sherlock barely feels it.

It’s always John now. Everything is John. He searches and he searches, and his inbox piles up with messages, cases, questions from the press about his miraculous return but he sees none of them.

When parliament explodes, he’s wrapped in his head. No one dies – Mycroft has to take care of it himself, although it was a close call and his brother is furious with him. The result is his internet gone and the credit in his phone shorting out. He has nothing and his search comes to a stand-still, and the thought of John’s trail going colder than it already was causes him to _panic._

He’s lost John before, once, when he’d had to listen to a breathless, pleading voice at the other end of his mobile.

It had made something clench tightly in his gut.

Seeing ghosts in 221B, hearing high-pitched giggles drifting from the doors, from downstairs, John’s voice murmuring cheekily into his ear; he thinks he may be going insane.

Was this how John felt? The flat too large and too empty, yet clogging his airway with every step into a quiet room.

In the privacy of the bathroom, where he is fairly certain there are no bugs, he shakes and shivers and wishes for John to come home.

 

* * *

 

_“You’ve been too much of a handful, lately. You’ve been too careless. I’m sorry, Sherlock. I can’t have you slipping again.”_

 

* * *

 

Long fingers curled around the doorknob, rattling it with as much force as he could. It was a short try, a frustrated action only to spite the camera surely watching him right now. He’d tried it twice already and he rather doubted it would suddenly open.

He snarled at the direction of the blinking light at the corner of the room.

He knew Mycroft had given up. He knew Mycroft thought John was dead.

 _“And you know it too.”_ His disgusting, meddlesome arsehole of a brother said with so much pity that it made him physically sick.

He stepped back from the door, hands curling into fists.

He hadn’t, however, been able to bring himself to object, with as much vehemence as he had almost a year and a half ago.

“John’s not dead.” He said softly to himself, locket heavy against his chest. “He’ll come back to me.”

 

* * *

 

_You’re miserable without him._

“I am not!”

The words come out with too much heat to be believable. His eyes, encased in the color of the abyss, quickly fix on his knees, his fingers – softer, smaller than the ones he’s used to – playing with the fabric of his trousers, clenching a little too tight.

To think that, that _bastard_ still has a hold on him. _Him,_ Son of Ihyna.

His features darkened for a moment, an anger that should never be on a face so young.

_That human’s got you. I’ve never seen you pine over someone for so long._

His lips pursed at the quiet, almost amused, words, taking a slow, deep breath before looking up, looking his mother in the eye; the glow of a heavenly body that he would never get used to, light he’d always wondered if he’d ever get (of course he wouldn’t; he was made, not born, not really, not like his mother had been). “I’m not pining over him. Honestly,” he waved a hand, fighting the urge to shift in place, “It’s just been a hard couple of-”

_Years?_

Years. It hasn’t been- it hasn’t been years. Has it..? It couldn’t have, couldn’t have been…

 _Time is precious to humans,_ his mother said gently, watching him intently, in the wonderful garden she’d created from her thoughts.

But it can’t have been years- he would’ve forgotten by now, he would’ve been over- he would’ve been done with Sherlock Holmes. How could the ache still be there, constant and reminding, if it felt as if it had only been last week?

What have you done to me, he thought numbly, his chest constricted.

“What does it matter to me?” he asked finally, voice small, strained, letting his gaze wander past his mother, to a frenzied bee bobbing among the flowers.

_This isn’t like Victor Trevor, Laycil._

His expression tightened at the name; the scholar almost six centuries ago.

 _He must have been something,_ his mother said, _If he made you like this._

“He doesn’t deserve me,” he said forcefully, hating the tremble in his voice, “If he made me like this.”

_Oh Laycil, my sweetheart._

He ducked his head, squeezing his eyes shut. Sherlock left him. Sherlock made his choice. He’d trusted him and he’d tried to kill himself. It was not like Victor Trevor- it was worse. He didn’t want to stare unblinking at the ceiling of his room, his bed sticky and warm and uncomfortable as he tossed and turned, trying to force himself to blank out, to take the rest he didn’t, never needed. He’d forget then, he would.

What was nice about sleeping? Nice about wasting your day, time that was so, so precious to humans.

It made you _forget._

He slept far more than he ever had in his room in the last few years than in the last 3 centuries. How fucked up was that.

“How do you know,” he asked slowly, voice nearly inaudible, as if it would make his admittance all the more real if he spoke loudly. “How do you know if- if he… he _loves_ me- _back,_ if it’s real, if we-?”

Warm hands covered his fingers, treading through them and squeezing in comfort and stopping the words he tried so hard to spit out.

 _If it hurts,_ his mother said, _then it’s real._

 

* * *

 

Mycroft’s reprimands ringing in his ear, even as stern and low as it was, he stormed back to his room, the hovering presence of two men in suits trailing behind him. They’d catch him if he tried to run again.

There would be old case files waiting for him, his brother said. Something to get him excited, he’d said.

He had demanded for his laptop back- his real one, not the one placed so innocently on his table as if it weren’t filled with spyware. He wanted it back and Mycroft hadn’t even bothered to look at him as he answered – _“No. You’ll only use it to search for_ him. _You need to stop this.”_

He wanted to laugh. No names- Mycroft didn’t say it anymore, as if it would somehow distance him.

He shoved his way into his prison before the two men could open the door for him, his hands reaching up to clench at his hair. He wanted to tug it out by its roots.

“This is a charming room.” A voice said quietly behind him.

He stiffened at the sudden realization that someone had been in the room before him, and he hadn’t known. He turned on his heels sharply, very nearly opening his mouth to lash out particularly viciously at the intruder, probably one of Mycroft’s men-

He stopped short, mouth parting wordlessly.

“You.”

“Hello.”

It was the boy he’d seen in France. It was the same boy that had reminded him so much of… of his flat mate, of his friend. If only the expression weren’t all wrong- wary, guarded. But the way his brow wrinkled, the way his lips tightened, it was the same. His eyes dragged along the fit of the suit, so different from what he’d worn that day, and his lips curled in a sneer.

“You’re one of Mycroft’s, aren’t you?” he hissed.

That earned him a bewildered blink, before the boy looked down on himself, and he murmured an _oh_ very quietly.

“Maybe you’ll know me better like this.” The boy said after a breath, an edge creeping into his voice.

And then-

And then he started to change.

He grew taller, his features matured; the baby fat that had made his cheeks round and glowing fell away. Blond hair grew spattering of silver and grey, became lighter as if bleached. Suddenly, it wasn’t an impudent teenager he barely knew standing in front of him.

Suddenly, it was- “ _John_.”

John, who was staring warily at him in that ridiculous suit that didn’t suit him at all, who looked as if he hadn’t aged a day-

Wait- he did, he _did_ age- _all in front of his eyes._

“Sherlock.” John said.

There were so many things he wanted to say, so many things he wanted to ask; _I’m sorry, how did you do that, where have you been, what are you, please don’t leave me again, why didn’t you stay, I’ve missed you._

John watched him as silence settled between them, awkward and suffocating.

“If you won’t say something,” his old flat mate said finally, head tilting downwards, scuffing his feet against the floor. “Then-” his breath caught in his throat, but John plowed on after a stutter. “Then I will.”

He saw John take a breath, as if steadying himself.

“Did you have to pretend to kill yourself?”

The question had him reeling; the implications. “You knew,” he rasped, words lifting at the end as he stumbled back, sinking onto the bed when he felt the back of his legs hit the frame. “You knew I wasn’t…?”

“Of course I knew.” John scoffed, voice turned cold as he looked away.

“How?” he asked blankly; he’d been so careful, Mycroft had been so careful, and no matter what he liked to say about his brother, he was always discreet. No one could’ve known- especially not John; that was the whole point. There was no way, no one that would tell.

His homeless network, Molly…

How did John know?

“How could I not?” John’s voice, hard and tense, interrupted his swirling thoughts. Blue eyes flickered up through blond lashes to pierce him. “You- You know who I am, you didn’t think I wouldn’t check-”

“The plan was designed to fool even the best doctors, John, not just you-”

John looked at him strangely. “Did you think you could fool me? With a cheap trick?”

There was something dangerous in the way he said it, something mocking, and he got the feeling he was missing something here, that there was a secret only John was privy to, and John expected him to keep up. This wasn’t the John Watson he knew. This was something else, something dark and angry and hurt.

 _God_.

He wanted to trace those wrinkles with his fingers, map them out so he would never be able to forget them, curl up next to him like they used to, the telly garbling in the background while John’s fingers thread through his hair.

“I’m literally the Prince of ‘Hell’.” John said tiredly, shoulders sagging, “I can tell if you’re really dead.”

He blinked, thoughts scrambled for a moment.

“What?” he asked carefully, breath coming out in a soft exhale.

John glowered at him, fingers curling into fists, and he really did look odd without his frumpy jumpers, dressed instead in a suit one would expect from Mycroft’s ilk (he didn’t like it). “I know it wouldn’t seem like it, but I do listen when someone tells me to leave.” John’s gaze seemed to flicker from him to the ground; his teeth gritted and jaw clenched. “It’s not the first time someone’s found out. Though no one’s ever went as far as you did to get rid of me.”

 

* * *

 

How could he have forgotten the way Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed when he couldn’t put something together? Did he always have those lines at the edges of his eyes? Did he always have that scar at the corner of his chin?

“I didn’t,” Sherlock said slowly, hesitantly, and he had that look again, the one that suggested he was thinking about something very hard behind those pale eyes of his. The bed creaked when he stood again, something vulnerable in the way he stared at him, “I didn’t jump to get rid of you, John.”

Yeah, right, he very nearly spat out, but he was afraid his voice wouldn’t keep steady, for it certainly felt like it wouldn’t.

_Remember what mother said._

Sherlock was different. Sherlock was different. He almost choked trying to keep his breathing even. “Well then,” he said quietly, lifting his head as if he didn’t care what answer Sherlock gave, as if he wasn’t terrified out of his wits to hear what Sherlock really had to say about him, “Why did you jump?”

And it came out in a whoosh of breath: “Moriarty would’ve killed you,” and it was his turn to blink, head tilting to the side as he watched his genius – always, would always be his genius, wouldn’t he? Damn his soft heart – move towards him, trying hard not to step back.

“I did it to protect you.”

Such an idiot.

Such an _idiot_.

“I did it to protect Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, and I did it to protect you. He would’ve killed you- he had snipers on you.”

“Prove it.” Desperation made his voice waver, head tilting up to keep his gaze fixed firmly on Sherlock, who towered over him, so close he hadn’t needed to speak at normal volume for him to hear him.

“Look,” Sherlock said immediately, hands reaching into the collar of his button-up, frantically bringing out a silver chain, and his eyes widened slightly at the sight, wondering how he’d have missed it, for he’d certainly never seen it before, not around the flat or around Sherlock’s neck. “Look, would I have kept this, would I have worn it every day for the past 3 years if I didn’t want you back?”

He pulled his gaze away, looked down at the necklace.

Tentatively, he took it from Sherlock’s palm, as if it were a delicate thing. He could feel Sherlock watching his hands, and his neck prickled with the phantom feeling of that searching gaze roving over him once more, all those times when he’d asked him not to…

He popped open the locket gently, cradling it in one palm as he unfolded the crinkled, worn paper within with another.

It wasn’t a newspaper clipping, wasn’t just a random picture anyone could get their hands on.

It was a candid shot, one clearly from a phone (probably Greg’s) containing various pictures that he either destroyed or kept for himself. He remembered that day; they’d taken an unexpected dip in the Thames. He had been furious, sopping wet, and unbelievable concerned; human bodies were weak and susceptible to diseases and illnesses, and he had the right to be worried for the stupid man.

“Why did you think I jumped?” Sherlock said softly, and his head snapped up at remembering how he’d given himself away, wide-eyed and caught.

“I…”

“How did you do that? How did you change? Morph?”


End file.
